Hurry

The invitation came, dropped off on the kitchen door while I was showering.  Attire: Garden Party Chic.  WTF?  In a panic, I went to the closet.  Fucking all my clothes have shrunk on their hangers.  I can only guess it was the humidity.  But, I found a pair of khakis that still fit. . . if I don't mind sucking in my belly a bit.  I have a couple linen jacket that will work.  Shoes didn't shrink, so no problem.  I haven't worn long pants since I left the factory, I think.  Pretty sure.  Nor shoes.  Nor a jacket.  I'll be sweating on the lakefront lawn in the heat and humidity of a sultry southern afternoon like a puffy drunken pig.  Jesus. . . how do I get myself into these things?  I guess I'm a likable guy.  

The film prof gymroid said he and his wife went to a kids birthday party on the weekend, "And you know how those things are.  When we left, my wife was worn out with smiling and carrying on chit-chat.  She said that she liked talking to you because you are just so real." 

Well. . . I took the compliment and gave one in return.  But as one friend told me, you hire someone to work for you and they end up at your Thanksgiving table.  Hell, man. . . even the garbage collectors beep their horn and wave whenever they see me.  I am good, I guess, in a certain crowd.  

I don't think I'll lose weight by Saturday.  I should have scanned the other side of the invitation so you could see the program.  Christ. . . I'll be there all night.  I mean, fuck's sake. . . it's my tree guy!

O.K.  I'm just being a butthole because I'm fat and don't fit into my clothes.  If I had some nice, drapey linen pants that fit, I'd be o.k.  Maybe I'll go down to the Boulevard and see if I can pick a pair up. . . but I am sure to have sticker shock.  

I've had some self-revelations outside the closet, too.  I've come to realize that for my entire life, I've always been in a hurry.  That's why I am not good at so many things.  Everything seems to be a contest, whether it is driving with idiots in traffic or trying to color when I was a kid.  My pictures were always sloppy, going over lines, leaving blank spaces between hurried crayon strokes.  I'd watch other kids, careful kids like Susan Pleitchwaite, as they carefully filled in the spaces with concentrated care.  I had time to watch because I finished so quickly, and I liked watching Susan.  She was the prettiest girl in our class.  

Same has been true of tool use.  When I was sixteen, I spent the summer with my aunt and uncle.  He got a side job painting the wooden house of a man down the street who suffered from polio.  My uncle took me down and showed me how to use the hand sander to take off the paint where it was rough.  Then he left me and went to work.  Of course, I was in a hurry and worked quickly. . . so quickly, in fact, I put divots all over the side of the house.  The guy with polio sure could be mean.  I wasn't asked to sand anymore.  

Even when I paint a wall or the deck, I am too hurried and sloppy, getting splatters of paint everywhere.  Trim work?  Forget it.  It looks like one of my elementary school crayon pictures when I'm done.  Even getting groceries and camera bags out of the car, I hurry.  Bags rip and cameras drop.  And like any good hillbilly, I never screw a cap back on a bottle all the way.  

But I'm always quick with a retort.  That is one place where speed has come in handy.  

The only place I slow down is when I read.  And I've read.  Boy oh boy, I've read.  That has been the secret sauce in my life, I guess, my safe space.  But as you well know, when I write. . .  I don't take time to go back to edit things like this blog, and I don't try to rewrite sketches into the stories I think I should be writing.  

And I've always been impatient waiting for people to get ready.  Impatient and irritated.  It has not been a good trait.  It has not served me well.  

Jesus.  I should delete this.  It sounds like a twelve step program.  

"Hi, I'm C.S. and I have a confession.  I eat too quickly and too much, and now, as you can see, my pants don't fit and all my white shirts have food stains."

Now that I've lingered so long writing this nonsense, I need to hurry to the gym.  I'll try to do a quick workout.  I don't know if I'll have time to. . . . 

Etc.